This is Not a Safe House, Part II
by Sara Dobie Bauer
Summary: Part II of "This is Not a Safe House." He saved her life in Karachi, and she told him she loved him. Now, she believes him dead—until he shows up at her front door—and proves no one is safe around sentiment.
1. Chapter 1

This is Not a Safe House, Part II

She wept when she heard he was dead.

She almost cried over him once before, in the safe house in Pakistan when he'd been shot while saving her life. She never thought he would die, though—not that night, not ever. Sherlock Holmes seemed a legend in her eyes, and legends never died. Then, he did, by his own hand, which was the most shocking part of the nightmare. How could he do it? How could he splatter that beautiful brain on pavement? How could he leave John? How could he leave her?

He left her in Paris a year before, but he didn't say goodbye. She realized he never said goodbye. How disrespectful to go and kill himself without at least a friendly text, which was exactly what she did when she heard the news—stumbled upon it on the BBC website. Irene Adler sent Sherlock Holmes a text: "Tell me you're not dead."

Then, she waited, in her shiny new flat in San Francisco. Paris was too close to London, too close to him. California was better, safer: a sunny place to start a new business. The day she heard the news, she texted him from her flat, and he never responded, so she wept for what seemed like days.

She cancelled with clients. She didn't eat. She didn't sleep. She sat and stared at her cellular phone, willing it to make a sound until the silence threatened to crush her eardrums—until she turned on loud, American rock music to cover the sound of his absence. Forever. The only man she loved, gone forever.

When the weeping stopped, when the clients returned, she still jumped at every text. When she closed her eyes at night, she dreamt of his hands on her flesh and remembered the way his mouth felt in the safe house in Karachi. When she woke in the morning, she sometimes even felt his warm body next to her, only to reach out and find cold, tangled sheets. She didn't cry then, not anymore. She subdued all sentiment, buried alongside her dead consulting detective.


	2. Chapter 2

That afternoon, she awaited a client. One of her favorites: a pretty, young actress who always stopped by when visiting from LA.

Irene sat in a chair made of worn leather, purchased at an antique shop when she'd first moved to San Fran. The chair was her first piece of furniture, in fact, because she liked sitting in it, liked looking out the window over the harbor as the mist rose every day. She extended her slim legs and rested her red stiletto pumps on the windowpane.

Her style had changed drastically in California. In an effort to remain incognito, she chopped her long, brown hair into a short, blond bob. She replaced her usual black negligee with gaudy shades of red and gold—very Hollywood. She kept the accent, didn't try to assimilate, because clients seemed to like a dirty girl from Britain. Her posh voice acted as a stimulus as she whipped them, chained them, and tied them to bedposts.

On the arm of the chair, she spun her cellular phone. She always kept it close, although if asked, she would have denied she kept it close because of _him._ Irene no longer even allowed herself to think _his _name.

A quiet knock on her apartment door sent a sigh from her lips. Her job was all she had to keep her distracted. She had no friends in California—too dangerous to make connections. Her "connections" were now only sexual and on a paid basis. Such connections kept her safe, safe from the way _he _once made her feel.

Irene stood and adjusted her floor-length, red lace robe. She glanced in the mirror to the left of her front door and admired the way her bleached blond hair made her light eyes glow. She winked at herself, struck her most seductive pose, and opened the front door.

A man stood before her—tall and slim, in a gray suit and light blue shirt. Blond hair was styled back over his high forehead, but even with the assistance of product, Irene could see the hair wanted to curl. For a moment, she didn't recognize him, not until his eyes finally lifted from her robe and found her face. Those eyes: the cold, blue eyes that lingered on the edge of nightmares.

"Your client has decided to cancel," he said.

Irene's reaction was visceral but not one of joy. Instead, she felt anger tingle up her spine and into the tips of her fingers. Her palms burned, and almost of its own accord, her right hand pulled back and smacked him hard across the face. She watched his pale cheek turn pink under the force of her blow, but he soon turned to look at her again, which only angered her more. Again, she pulled back and smacked him, harder. She pulled back for a third swat, but by then, his hand reached up and grasped her wrist.

With the advent of his touch, the room spun. White dots floated in front of her eyes, and his face disappeared behind a veil of haze. Her skin felt hot, then cold. She couldn't breathe, and the tightly wound, red corset around her ribs did not aid in oxygen intake. Her knees buckled, and he caught her. Her body leaned against his, her nose right in his neck as he said, "Ms. Adler," somewhat in shock but also sounding resigned, as if perhaps he'd expected a reaction of this sort.

The scent of him only made the dancing white dots increase—the scent of his cologne and his skin, so familiar and so heart-breaking. Vaguely, she noticed she was being carried. She heard her front door close, and a moment later, she felt her back swallowed by the couch near the wall in her apartment. She reached for him, if only to touch his hand, but he was gone to her kitchen, where she heard drawers open and water run. Then, he was back, kneeling at her side. She felt a cold, wet washcloth on her forehead.

"Ms. Adler, you're having a panic attack. You need to breathe."

"Can't. Breathe."

He apparently noticed what she wore beneath her robe, because he used his dexterous fingers to unlatch her corset and pull a nearby blanket over her nakedness.

"Breathe," he said, and she tried to focus on the word, focus on his command.

She soon found herself able to take full breaths. Her skin still felt hot, then cold, and then hot beneath the silk comforter she kept on the back of her couch merely for decoration. Her vision returned, however, so she could see him and his unfamiliar hair and clothes. He stood above her, hands on his hips, brow furrowed.

"Do you have juice? You need juice." He took a step back to her kitchen, but her voice stopped him.

"Sherlock," she whispered, and something about the use of his first name brought him back to her, again kneeling at her side. She turned her gaze and focused on the details of his face: same high forehead, bright blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and pliant, parted lips. She reached her shaking hand out to touch him and cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand. She ran her thumb over his skin and sighed.

Then, on a wisp of exhaled breath, she heard him say, "Forgive me."

For what, she wondered? For pretending to be dead? For keeping her in the dark? Or perhaps for returning to her when they both knew they would never have a happy ending.


	3. Chapter 3

He refused to let her leave the couch while he made tea in her kitchen. She watched the entrance to her dining area, comforted every time she saw his tall form pass the doorway. In a way, she thought she might be dreaming—if she took her eyes away too long, he would be dead again. So she watched, stared, at every movement he made in the kitchen until he returned with two steaming cups of tea on a tray adorned with sugar, milk, and a silver spoon.

"You're very pastel," she said as he handed her a cup and appraised his gray slacks and light blue shirt.

"My new wardrobe is effective. You didn't even recognize me."

"I did. Your eyes give you away."

He sat down across from her, in her leather chair, and crossed one leg over the other.

"You should try contacts."

"Contacts are uncomfortable," he said.

Irene smiled at this, because of course, even though in hiding, discomfort was asking too much of the great Sherlock Holmes.

"How did you find me?" she asked.

He tilted his chin down and lowered his eyebrows.

"Of course. You could find anyone."

"Not anyone," he said, and she wondered if that meant she was special—special or lacking in caution, she supposed.

"You could have called."

"I'm sorry?"

"If you wanted me to know you were alive. Cheaper than a plane ticket."

She watched him sip his tea before responding. "I'm not here to let you know I'm alive."

"Why are you here?"

He set his tea cup on the tray between them and glanced toward her front window. "I'm here to kill someone."

"Since when are you a vigilante?"

"Coming from the woman whose life I saved being a vigilante." He pushed out of the chair and approached the sunlight that toppled past San Francisco clouds and into her home.

Admittedly, the blond hair suited him. It shined gold in the light, almost tinted red at the roots. The blond hair also made him less striking, the mixture of blue eyes and blond hair more natural than his usual black. Less striking was good when one wanted to fit in.

"You came all the way to California to commit murder," she said.

"Tonight, yes. I leave in the morning. I'll sleep on your couch."

It was her turn to set down her tea, but her anger had returned, and the cup toppled over onto the tray as she set it down. She stood up and held the blanket tight around her naked chest. "What am I, your hotel?"

He oh-so-slowly turned to face her, hands clasped behind his back. "Ms. Adler, please don't let your anger get in the way of common sense. I'm going to kill a man tonight at a public, highbrow event. There may be witnesses. The only safe place for me before I leave the United States tomorrow is here with you where no one would think to look."

"Don't talk to me about common sense. This is about Moriarty, isn't it? A mission of revenge."

He glanced away from her.

"Look at me, you stupid man."

"Of all the things I've been called, stupid is not one of them," he replied.

"You were stupid to come here, Mr. Holmes."

"Was I?"

"Very much so," she said.

He picked up his suit coat from the back of the leather chair and pulled the fabric over his arms and shoulders as he moved to her front door. "I'll be back tonight."

"The door will be locked."

"As if that's ever stopped me before," he said, and the door slammed behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

Irene showered as soon as he was gone. She screamed at the second tea cup on her tray, because it belonged to him. She lit candles, because she could not get the scent of his skin out of her nose. She busied her hands with sewing a new costume in an effort to erase the feel of his face from her fingers.

Something had passed between them in Karachi, she knew. She, Irene Adler, The Woman, had admitted her love to Sherlock Holmes. She had been his first, probably still only, sexual partner. For a moment, maybe he had loved her, too, although he never admitted as much.

However, when they left that safe house the year prior, she knew the moment was gone—knew they had both returned to their callous personas before the door even closed behind them. Yet, Irene was happy with the memory of that night; now, it all seemed a farce. Now, she felt nothing but resentment for believing she had ever meant anything to the cold consulting detective.

Her sleep was fitful. The front door was locked—double-bolted—yet every time the building creaked, she sat up in bed and listened for the sound of his shoes on the floor. She was wrathful with him, and surely he with her, but she knew he would be back. He was a man of his word, if nothing else.

To be safe, she did pull a gun when she heard the window to her fire escape slide open. She tip-toed into her darkened living room, and even in shadow, she recognized his long, lanky form.

She turned on a nearby lamp. "Welcome home. Dear," she spat.

He wore a tuxedo. His blond hair, so orderly earlier, had escaped the styling product and now fell in curls across his eyes. He ignored her comment and walked in the direction of her bathroom. "You need to wash the blood from your windowpane. I wouldn't have made such a mess if the window had been unlocked."

"Blood?" She glanced at the window before following him to the bathroom, where water ran. In the bright bathroom light, she could see his hands were covered in crimson. "Mr. Holmes …"

"You have to leave town," he said.

"Why? Because you smeared evidence on my windowpane?"

"No. Because the man I killed tonight was sent here to find you."

"But I thought—"

"I know what you thought. You were mistaken. Sentiment clouded the obvious facts."

"Obvious?"

He rinsed his hands and, she noticed, used the darkest towel he could find in her bathroom, just in case there was still blood beneath his fingernails. He swept past her, using his newly cleaned hands to remove his tie. Irene followed him to the living room, where he paced. His eyes were wild, practically glowing in the lamplight.

"Obvious. Yes. Moriarty only had two men in America—in New York and DC—but I took care of them both months ago. The majority of his connections are arranged strategically in Europe and into Asia. Obvious." He looked to her for confirmation. "Seriously. Terrorists don't care about California."

"You came here to protect me."

He didn't seem to hear her. He stood by the window and looked down at the darkened street. "I'm so close. Close to erasing all trace of Moriarty's power. Close to going home."

She heard the deep sound of his chuckle, and she turned her back. She cried silent tears and did not want him to see.

"You could come back to London someday," he said. "Stay with me. No one in their right mind would think to look for you in my flat."

She covered her mouth with her hand. She wanted so badly to be in control, but the way he spoke—as if they had a future together—tore her in two. She willed him to stay away, near the window, but even with her back turned, she felt him move closer. She felt the heat of his body behind her, even as tears rolled down her cheeks.

His hand touched her shoulder, and she took a step forward.

"I don't understand why you're crying."

She laughed, although there was no humor in it. "You wouldn't."

Then, his voice surprised her. "I love you, too."

"What?" She purposely kept her back to him.

"I apologize for never returning your sentiment in Karachi, but I was not sure love existed until you disappeared from the house you rented in Paris. I thought someone might have found you, but then, you surfaced here. I felt a great deal of relief to know you were alive, which I believe speaks to evidence of sentiment towards you—sentiment I can only conclude must be love."

His words stopped her tears but not the strange, aching pain in her stomach. "Life was so much easier before I met you."

He paused, and she wondered what expression his face wore. Then: "Do you regret it? Meeting me?"

"No."

"Miss Adler—"

"Don't call me that. I'm not her when I'm with you."

"Irene …"

She turned around, willing him to look at her red eyes and wet cheeks. "I wept when I heard you were dead. For days."

"It was necessary," he replied. "To keep people safe."

"There's no such thing as safe."

"You seem … angry with me." He was unsure, she could tell. Her roller coaster of emotions threw even the great detective, apparently, so she stepped forward and took hold of his face.

"Why can't I stop loving you?"

"You will eventually. It's human nature."

She smiled through the pain. "You really are stupid, Mr. Holmes." She walked away from him and fell into her leather chair as she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand. "Have you been with anyone since Karachi?"

"Sorry?"

"Think indelicately."

She watched him take a deep breath, stand up straight, and fold his arms behind him. He looked to have trouble speaking, which seemed, at the least, highly out of character. Quietly, barely above a whisper, he said, "I've only ever wanted you."

She felt her pulse increase. Her fingertips clenched into the arms of her chair, and she stared up at him.

"Well," he said.

"Well what?"

He leaned over her as she sat motionless in the chair. She willed herself not to move, waiting instead for what he might do. He rested his hands on the arms of the chair and moved forward until his face was inches from her own. Then, tentatively, he turned his head slightly and planted a single, soft kiss on her lips. Irene closed her eyes and sank against the warmth of his mouth. Then, he pulled away, stood up straight, and cleared his throat.

"You should get some rest. I'll sleep on the couch."

A sound somewhere between guffaw and grunt escaped her throat, which made his blue eyes return to her.

"What?" he asked.

Irene pushed herself out of the chair and latched onto both sides of his face. She pulled his mouth down to meet hers and shoved her tongue into his mouth. She was starving for him, and all it took was a touch of his lips to remind her how much he annoyed her, frustrated her—and how much she loved him and wanted nothing more than his bare skin.

She expected him to fight her off, as he had that night in Pakistan, but it seemed the inexperienced Sherlock Holmes had been waiting for her to make the first move. There was nothing tentative about him now. His long arms crushed her small body against his chest, so hard their lips drew apart to make room for Irene's so familiar moan.

Her chin tilted to the ceiling, and his lips moved to the pale skin of her neck. He sucked and bit, and she moaned again—almost in pain, knowing his mouth would leave marks. She could practically feel his heartbeat through his clothing as his hands moved over her body and cupped her ass. He pushed his pelvis against her, and she felt his urgent hardness against her lower stomach. Although duly impressed by his aggression, she had to slow him down.

"Sherlock …"

Saying his name did not help, because he responded by crushing her lips with his own.

She pulled the hair on the back of his head and drew their mouths apart. "Slow down, love," she said, and he rested his forehead against hers, both of them completely out of breath.

Irene looked up at him and found his eyes shut. He was drifting away from his physical form, she knew, mentally separating himself from her body in order to regain clarity.

"Sherlock."

"Mm."

"Open your eyes and look at me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't like feeling out of control."

With him so close, heat radiating off his face, Irene realized her mistake in trying to slow the great Mr. Holmes. By slowing him, she gave him time to think, and sex was not about thinking—sex was about feeling. Her initial intention of a romantic seduction in her bedroom was now forgotten, and Irene felt The Woman take over. She welcomed her.

"It's time you lost control," she whispered.

His eyes opened long enough for him to see the smirk on her face. Then, she used both her petite hands to shove him backwards onto her living room couch. She straddled him and tore his shirt open. Buttons flew.

He started to speak, and she covered his mouth with her hand. "Shhh."

She tore at his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. She reached her hand inside, and when she found him, at attention, she watched his head lean back on her couch and his eyes close. She shifted his clothing away and didn't even bother to remove her own underwear. She simply moved her panties to the side and slid down onto him.

Irene could not subdue her own moan. No other man did this to her—no other man made sex feel like more than sex.

She started slow and watched Sherlock's face, eyes shut and forehead furrowed as he took shallow breaths between his parted lips. She took time to lean forward and press kisses against his neck and collarbone. She even kissed the scar on his right shoulder: a reminder of the bullet wound in Karachi. She ran her hands down his bare chest and vaguely noticed he'd lost weight—weight he couldn't afford to lose.

She didn't want to think about what he'd been through since his untimely death. She didn't want to consider the stress of murder, revenge, and loss, so she moved her hips in small circles until she felt the bottom of her stomach quiver in delight. So lost in her own sensation, she was not prepared when Sherlock turned sideways and pinned her beneath him on the couch.

She opened her eyes and found a slight smile on his lips. Then, he drove into her, hard, and she shouted in pleasure. She felt his breath on her neck as he continued, moving fast and rough. There was nothing gentle about this lovemaking; this was desperate, necessary, and hot enough to steam up the room.

She gasped against his throat. She shoved the collar of his torn shirt out of the way and dug her teeth into his shoulder. She writhed and pushed her pelvis against him with every thrust. She spoke in tongues until she felt the wave of an orgasm wash over her. She dug her nails into his back and shouted his name, over and over, until the letters lost meaning in a haze of brain-shaking euphoria.

He was right behind her. A final deep thrust and he melted on top of her, his head buried in the crook of her neck. Her very alive consulting detective shot puffs of air against her skin. His arms wrapped around her; her arms and legs mimicked the gesture, holding him as if in a vice, holding him as if she would never let go. She kissed his forehead, salty with sweat. She kissed his closed eyes. She ran the edges of her fingers through his unfamiliar blond hair, which made him cling to her even tighter.

"Will you sleep with me tonight?" She'd never asked a man to do so before.

"Try and stop me," he replied.


	5. Chapter 5

There wasn't much sleeping, yet it wasn't all love-making either. There was plenty of that, however, and Irene was not surprised to find Sherlock a quick learner. It was surely the scientist in him, treating her sexual responses almost as science experiments, complete with hypotheses, testing, conclusions, and re-testing—just to be sure.

But they also spoke, really talked to each other. Sherlock shared with her the secret of his death-defying fall from the top of St. Bart's. He admitted to how much he missed John, how much he missed London. He even admitted to being lonely. She shared that she, too, missed London. She admitted to how much she missed him, Sherlock Holmes—how she often saw him in crowds, how she sought out men who looked like him in San Francisco bars.

She slept some, off and on, always with her face planted against his bare chest, his arms around her. She would wake to either his kisses or to a panic that he was nothing but a figment of her imagination—that he really was dead and that she was off her rocker. Every time she feared her sanity, though, she would wake up, and he would be there, watching her sleep, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

A couple times, she said she loved him, just to taste the words in her mouth. A couple times, he even said it back.

Close to morning, he said, "You'll know when I come back to life in London. You'll know when it's safe …"

She heard the rest of that final sentence in her head: _You'll know when it's safe … to come find me, live with me, be with me. _

Yet deep in the darkest place of her heart, Irene wondered if she could ever truly take him up on the offer. They weren't the sort of people who lived happily ever after: got married, had babies, lived long lives. They were the sort who died young and alone. She drifted to sleep again, wondering what Sherlock Holmes would look like as a seventy-year-old man.

Then, he was gone.

When she awoke, the bed was still warm at her side. The sun was shining, and the clock read 8 AM. She no longer doubted his realness. The soreness between her legs told her he had been there—several times. She was glad he had not said goodbye. "Goodbye" was too final.

She climbed out of bed and wrapped herself in the nearest silk robe. She yawned, exhausted, but ready for action. Today would be the day she would move again, start a new life somewhere else, thanks to Sherlock's warning. She wandered into her living room, where, through her front window, she could see the morning sun, obstructed by a sheet of gray morning fog.

Irene sat down on her couch. Pillows were on the floor, as were buttons from Sherlock's shirt. On the small table beside the couch, she found a note with a street address in South Carolina. "Think you'd be rather fond of Charleston," it said. "Took the liberty of buying you a flat."

She laughed softly and was delighted to find she could still smell him on her skin.

Across the room, on the table by the front door, she heard the sound of her cellular phone: a text alert. Now that she knew he was alive, out there somewhere, she no longer ran with desperation. Instead, she calmly made her way and was not surprised to find the text was from him.

Simply, honestly, it read: "I will always keep you safe." And she knew he would.

THE END


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